On the Train West – Nebraska

May 28, 1914

She was seductive, beautiful, supple, married, and willing. She laced her hand in mine and pulled me toward the pantry. “I shouldn’t,” I whispered.

“I don’t mind. We’ve done it before,” she pulled the door closed, wrapped her long arms around my waist, fondled my bum and exhaled a kiss on my neck. Resistance was beyond my control.

In the morning, moments before my mother and her staff were due to arrive, I saw the candle wax on the floor, knelt and scraped it off immediately. Why didn’t I come back earlier? Two colors intermingled and screamed that two people were together in the pantry after hours. I heard the heavy scurrying footsteps of the Master. Oddly for that time in the morning, he was impeccably dressed in an Edwardian Mortimer suit. Kneeling, I stared at his brightly shined shoes. I still had the wax peels in my hand when he barked, “So it’s you Julius?”

“It’s quite the mess sir. I’ve cleaned it up.”

“This isn’t the first time, and I’ve had my suspicions. The rumors and now the evidence imply you again,” smirked the successful sleuth looking at my colourful stained fingers.

“I’m not sure what you mean sir.”

“You’re cuddling on a regular basis with your mother’s staff. This is the last straw.” His fury rose, “I’ve warned you before. Your career here has ended, and I’m sending you to the Colonies. Your Uncle Thomas can deal with you. You’re a Lothario rake like your grandfather and destined for the same fate, if you don’t grow up. I’m informing your parents. Start packing.” He spun on his heel, and I stood with my mouth opened, speechless. A horrifying beauty, only-sin-deep scene completed.

The floor was cleaned every evening after supper, and the first person through the door noticed it. My clandestine meeting with Molly, the baker, banished me to Colorado. Her husband had travelled to visit relatives; she was free for the night and encouraged me to meet her. She was not my first indiscretion, I needed to count them on two hands, but she was my last at the estate.

Mother and twin sister, Julia, cried as I settled into the motor carriage bound for the Southampton Port, United Kingdom, and the steamship. A sad moment I will always remember. Father’s words of encouragement were, “I hope you will learn to think with your brain or lust will be the end of you.” My brothers did not give a fig, snickered with indifference, and gave mocking adieus with feigned kindness. Time added putrid ripeness to their charm. I shouted from the back window a line I had read, “Thank you for your sympathy.  I dare say it was well-meant. Impertinence often is.” Family love evolved over time and created the power to profoundly emote or hurt.

I was born and raised on an estate in Southern England. My mother, as chef, managed the kitchen, and my father continued as the first valet. I was well along the path to becoming a footman and replacing my father at his retirement or even achieving the elite butler position as head of the household staff. The punishment for my recklessness may last forever. It will be some time before I am welcomed back. I miss my mother and sister, Julia, but not my father and brothers. Bloody hell, I will embrace the opportunity. The thrill of sex endured briefly, and the following remorse feels an eternity.

Banished, I must face my future, imagine, and invent my proper new existence. To this point, it was done for me by other people and now, my task. Mother, who from infancy to that fateful moment, kept the coarser realities of life from me. I promised her to make my life right, I cannot ever lie to her again and I am determined not to end my life sharing my grandfather’s legacy.

My first ocean voyage consisted of adventurous thrills filled with playing games, gay conversations, cocktails and reading in relaxing deck chairs. I looked for Titanic icebergs in the beginning, as we departed from the same seaport. While gazing at 360 degrees of blue, gray, and white, turbulent, foaming water, I thought little of my carnal stupidity.

I have stopped writing. I squirmed restively in my seat, stood, and wandered the rail coach and sat again with remorse. Colorado is only a state away. The closer I get, the more I have stewed in my thoughts. At each train station across America, I picked up a local newspaper. Today, in the State of Nebraska, the Omaha World-Herald sat next to a stack of diary books at the newsstand. I bought one of each and thought writing would curb my anxiety.

Uncle Thomas, my father’s brother, was ten years my senior and immigrated to America a decade ago. He bought a stable and continued his trade as a horseman and country veterinarian in Hot Sulphur Springs, Colorado, about 90 miles west of Denver.  Because I had skills, he arranged for my exiled employment at the newly constructed Cabin Hotel in Steamboat Springs 60 miles farther west. I have set and properly served dining tables since I was tall enough to look over them.

My eyes dart to a woman across the coach aisle. She sits properly, face forward, with her daughter who glances at me occasionally. They infrequently pass a basket back and forth, full of young ducks with a white cloth cover. Sporadically one sticks its head out, quacks and peers around with fearful eyes. Until, it is promptly pushed back into the prison by the hand of whichever owner of the lap it happens to be resting on. At home, ducks ran around flapping their wings with involuntary glee after their heads were chopped off. Apparently, they were wondering about their future too.

Seated next to me, a travelling salesman talks insistently. My newspaper is a poor barrier, and I listen with mute disgust. “You’ll like Denver, pretty place, and be sure to go to Market Street. Many interesting women there,” he booms.

He attempts to get the young woman to try on one of his many colorful stocking garters. That’s when she looked at me with pleading eyes wishing me to make him stop. I purchased a necktie. He stood up and went to look for a drink. I read the paper; the women never said a word, and they disembark in Paxton with the ducks.

I am totally alone, and I realize with luck or not, it would be as it is to be.